Before I met you
I thought that
poetry was just
a collection of words,
that music was just
a collection of sounds,
that art was just
a collection of
shapes, colours and stokes
that life was just
a series of
years, breaths and steps
Indeed, I see things differently now
Through you, I am reborn

Dear Papa,
Yesterday I saw something that I didn’t understand.
They were walking a little ahead of me.
But walking isn't the right word,
because there were two people
and only two feet.
It sounds like a math problem,
But nothing added up in my head.
It sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
But unlike the story you told me the other day,
there was no strong king or sly demon.
I saw, however, one ***** underfed boy of eight
dragging his crippled mother across the street.
Adhunik Shravan bal.
A Lilliputian on a Herculean task.
I couldn't decipher her age.
When you're that poor, does age matter?
Do they keep count of the days that pass by
when their aim is to survive just one?
Do they have a mirror to look into
and count the wrinkles on their face?
What does age matter to an eight year old boy
who, instead of attending school,
is hauling his handicapped mother across the road
on a seating board with wheels?
When I was that age, papa,
you bought me a skateboard
that was the exact leaf green
from my 50 colours oil pastels set.
I couldn't see the colour of their clothes.
There was the dark of the night,
yellow of the street lights
and everything was in sepia
like the picture you showed me
of your childhood.
You once told me you were raised in poverty too, papa.
Are there different kinds of poverty?
Did you get toys to play with
or were your clothes in sepia too?
I told you this sounds like a math problem, papa,
And here’s what doesn't add up.
Isn't a parent supposed to hold their child's hand
and show them how to cross the road?
I remember holding your hand,
looking left-right-left
and matching my steps
with your strides.
Fast, but never run.
Who taught him, papa?
Did he have his own papa to teach him?
How did he learn to walk fast enough
and pull hard enough
so that he and his mom made it across the road in time?
How did he find the strength if he was underfed?
He truly reminds me of Shravan bal,
because who else would carry his mother
across such distances.
I told you it sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
and now that I think about it, it really does.
Maybe this little boy is a young king.
Maybe he brings his vetal back home every day.
Maybe he hears her talk about her day.
And maybe, papa,
when he succeeds every night,
she saves him from an evil tantric.
An evil tantric called hunger.

If I could walk, I’d march with
The black and civil rights folk.

If I could walk, I’d carry a baby
On my shoulders to let him see

The evil behind him, in front of
Him, across the street he plays in.

If I could walk, I’d wrap love in
A blanket and give it to an old lady.

I’d sell my car and make a
Bandage out of its metal.

I’d be in a parade right next to the
Pastor from down home.

If I could walk, my tears would
Dry up, and my gut, as tight

As steel, would scream, fighting
Against the hate in the world,

The empty hearts emptier by the
Day, the hopeful souls dried up.

I cannot walk, but I can sing, and
I will sing songs of praise and

Melodies of strength and support
For those who hurt and whose

Eyes and ears are numb with
Grief and pain and chaos.

I cannot walk, but I can protest
Against betrayal and lies and

Corruption and bloodshed,
And protest I will.

© Lewis Bosworth, 8-2017